Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
Jim
My phone hadn’t stopped vibrating since five-thirty that morning.
I’d ignored it for the first ten minutes, assuming it was just work. Then, fifteen minutes in, it wouldn’t stop lighting up my nightstand like a Vegas slot machine. That’s when I reluctantly checked the fucking thing.
Maybe it was Avery, and this whole damn nightmare could just be put behind us. God, remind me to never think of having a fake fight with my wife again. Nothing could be worse than dealing with the fallout of it turning into a real one.
When I glanced at my phone, the fight with Avery faded instantly—because what I was staring at was, without question, worse.
Far worse.
Twelve missed calls from my head of PR, and multiple texts. Three messages from my assistant were marked “URGENT.” And one text from Spencer that simply read: Bro, don’t freak out.
Which, naturally, meant that’s exactly what I should do.
The headlines hit me next:
“From Sapling to Single: CEO Jim Mitchell Goes Viral Again.”
“She Took the Tree, the Mansion, and the Man’s Sanity — Internet Declares #BachelorJim Official.”
“Can’t Save His Marriage but He’ll Rescue a Brown Tree.”
I exhaled through my teeth and rubbed my temples. The first text from PR said:
Sir, please refrain from posting or commenting. We’re handling messaging internally.
The second said:
Also, sir, the Titanic edit has over 1.3 million views.
The Titanic edit? Jesus Christ.
I dragged a hand over my face and rolled out of bed. The smell of coffee and bacon drifted up from downstairs, which was already suspicious. None of those bastards cooked unless they’d done something stupid.
I tugged on a T-shirt, shoved my phone into my pocket, and headed down to face the execution squad.
Sure enough, Jake, Collin, Spencer, and Alex were huddled around my kitchen island like four grown-ass men trying to look innocent while flipping pancakes.
“Morning, sunshine,” Spencer said, overly chipper. “Hungry?”
I stopped at the base of the stairs and folded my arms. “I believe I should be the one asking questions. Which one of you jackasses posted poker night?”
They all froze.
Jake coughed into his coffee. Collin pretended to check the bacon. Alex, my closest friend and newest conspiring traitor, offered me a plate as if I were a dangerous zoo animal.
“Technically,” Jake said, “it was just a photo.”
“And technically,” I said evenly, “so was the Zapruder film.”
Collin choked out a laugh before quickly smothering it.
“Jim,” Spencer started, “you have to admit, the memes are kind of—”
“Finish that sentence, and you’re unemployed,” I snapped at Spencer, who clamped his mouth shut because he was struggling to remain serious and not burst into laughter.
I walked to the counter, picked up one of the muffins, which was blueberry, my favorite, and stared at it. “You’re making me breakfast?”
Jake grinned, trying to play it cool. “Well, after poker last night, we figured you might be a little…tense. And, uh, hungry.”
“Hungry?” I said. “And I beat all your drunk asses at poker last night, but that’s neither here nor there. The point at hand is that my marriage is currently trending under #TreeHuggerDivorce, and you honestly think I would be hungry?”
Collin raised a spatula. “We thought maybe pancakes would soften the blow.”
“Softening the blow would’ve been deleting your damn posts.”
Spencer slid a mug toward me. “Black coffee. No sugar. Just how you like it, big guy. And for the record, those captions weren’t ours. People just sorta twisted it and ran with it.”
“Ran with it?” I repeated. “No, they sprinted with it like Usain Bolt.”
They all exchanged a look. That silent look that said, we screwed up, but maybe he won’t kill us if we keep feeding him, look.
Finally, Jake leaned against the counter, grinning. “Look at it this way: at least the internet thinks you’re single. It’s like a return to The Billionaires’ Club bachelor boost. Perhaps, an image rehab. PR will spin it and make you shine.”
I glared at him. “I don’t need any of that shit. What I need is my wife back before I legitimately am what these trending posts are stating.”
That shut them up for a good ten seconds.
Spencer finally muttered, “It’s all going to be smoothed over, you know that.”
I grabbed the coffee, took a sip, and sighed. “You’re all cleaning this kitchen. Then you’re leaving. I’ve got a wife to track down before she decides the internet is right.”
Jake smirked. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” I said, setting the mug down, “if she thinks I’m suddenly claiming to be single, those damn brown trees will be the ones rescuing my sorry ass.”
My plan was simple: find Avery, fix whatever fresh viral hell this had become, and finally put an end to the world’s stupidest marital cold war.
But then my phone rang again. Jillian Reed. Head of PR.
“Sir,” she said before I could even speak, “we need you at the office. Now.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Yes, sir. Unfortunately, the internet doesn’t take weekends off. We’re drafting response statements and need your approval. Some outlets are running with the divorce angle.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Of course they are.”
“Also,” she hesitated, “a morning-show producer requested an exclusive segment called The Billionaire Who Loved Too Hard and Finally Lost. I told them you were unavailable. Indefinitely.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
By the time I arrived at Mitchell and Associates, the lobby screens were looping news clips of me, holding that stupid brown tree like a hero in a Hallmark movie gone wrong, followed by poker-night footage that made me look like a recently divorced man on a bourbon bender.
I glanced over at security. “Get that shit turned off,” I ordered.
“Yes, Mr. Mitchell,” he nodded and then moved toward the media offices.
Jillian met me the moment the elevator doors opened, tablet in hand, heels clicking a mile a minute. “Sir, the narrative’s shifting every hour. We can neutralize it if we control the message.”
“Not surprising.”
“We’ve prepared three approaches,” she continued briskly. “Option one: humor. Option two: dignified silence. Option three: a joint statement with Mrs. Mitchell.”
“Option three,” I said. “If I can get her to answer her damn phone.”
Her brows shot up. “So, we’re moving forward with the couple statement?”
“Draft the damn thing,” I said. “But make sure it sounds like me, and not like a man apologizing for having a sense of humor and a family that knows no end to their ludicrous pranks.”
“Yes, Mr. Mitchell.”
The hours blurred together. Meetings, edits, damage control. By the time PR finished putting out fires, it was after six. I checked my phone for what felt like the hundredth time. Nothing from Avery. No calls. No texts. Not even a sarcastic meme.
This ongoing silence hit me harder than the goddamn headlines.
I finally gave up, left the office, and drove straight to the Malibu house. She wasn’t there, so I had some hope that maybe she was at home and perhaps we could just get past all this stupid shit. That is, if she would finally fucking talk to me.
When I pulled into the garage, I felt a weight lift off my chest. Her car was there, and the lights were on in the house.
I stepped inside quietly. The scent of her perfume was faint but enough to twist something in my chest. Fuck, I’d missed her. I walked into the living area and found her sitting on the edge of the sofa, wearing jeans and a soft white sweater, eyes red and glassy.
For a second, I didn’t know what to say. Seeing her like that knocked the air out of me. Did this shit really fuck with our marriage in the worst way possible?
Avery looked up. “You’re home.”
“Finally,” I said quietly, walking toward her. “PR had me locked in my office all day cleaning up the circus that woke me up this morning.”
She gave a weak laugh. “How the hell did this spiral so hard with us?”
I sat down beside her, close enough that our knees touched. “I suppose we both just let it get stupid.”
Her lip trembled. “I didn’t mean to make you look bad, Jim. I just wanted to get even with your ass for driving me insane with that damn rescue tree. I can’t believe it’s come to this. It was supposed to be some silly and funny—”
“I know.” I reached over and brushed my thumb along her cheek. “And for the record, you could never upset me. Even if you were the reason I’m trending as some billionaire bachelor having a midlife crisis,” I said with a laugh. “It’s just noise, Av. Dumb, viral, pointless noise.”
She sniffed, trying to smile. “All this shit between us just wasted a whole damn week.”
“Yeah,” I said, leaning in until my forehead rested against hers. “A week wasted fighting is one week too many. I never want to lose another like that with you.”
Her breath hitched, and I kissed her slow, sure, and long fucking overdue.
When I pulled back, she whispered, “So…we’re good?”
I smiled faintly. “We were never not good, gorgeous. We’re just two idiots in love who let the internet and a dead brown tree get between us.”
She laughed through a tear. “God, that sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud.”
“It is ridiculous,” I said, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her against my chest. “But it’s over. No more games. No Mitchell family wars. Just us.”
“Just us,” she echoed softly, settling against me. “Ash took the girls until tomorrow.” Her smile—and that look I’d been craving all week—shifted something in me, flipping every thought to exactly how we needed to make sure this fight was over.
I scooped her up into my arms, kissed her neck, and strode toward the stairs. “I’m about to show you how much I’ve missed you this past week,” I said, kissing her temple.
“Promise we won’t stop until we’ve made up for all this wasted time,” she said, her lips trailing along my jaw and down my neck.
“Baby, you’re going to want a week’s vacation from me when I’m done proving how much I’ve missed you.”
With our phones left behind and our bedroom at our mercy, I moved swiftly toward the bed, and for the first time all week, the world finally shut up, and it was just me fervently showing my wife how much I loved every part of her.